The tunnels beneath Blackspire were a maze of dripping stone and echoing darkness. The narrow aqueducts that had carried water to the fortress for centuries twisted and turned in ways that made it easy to lose one’s sense of direction. Alric led the infiltration team with the obsidian dagger drawn, its faint pulse the only light to guide them.

  The rebels behind him moved in silence, their faces pale and tense. Each knew the stakes—if the mission failed, it wouldn’t just mean death for them but ruin for the rebellion.

  “Keep moving,” Alric whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of rushing water. “The garrison won’t expect us to come through here.”

  Kaelion’s voice hummed in his mind, a steady presence amidst the tension. “Don’t let your guard down, boy. Mordain’s Wolves aren’t fools. Even if they don’t expect this, they’ll still fight like cornered beasts when the time comes.”

  “I know,” Alric thought back. “Let me focus.”

  Kaelion didn’t respond, but his presence lingered at the edges of Alric’s awareness.

  They emerged from the aqueducts into a narrow storage chamber beneath the fortress. Crates and barrels were stacked high, the scent of grain and old wine clinging to the air. A single iron door stood on the far wall, faint voices audible from beyond it.

  Alric held up a hand, signaling the rebels to halt. He turned to one of the fighters—a wiry man named Lorne who carried a bundle of fire-starting tools.

  “Get to work,” Alric whispered. “We’ll need a distraction if things go wrong.”

  Lorne nodded, his hands already unwrapping the oil-soaked rags he carried.

  The rebels split into two groups. While Lorne and his team began preparing to ignite the storeroom, Alric led a smaller group toward the iron door. He pressed his ear to the cool metal, straining to hear the conversation on the other side.

  “They’re all jumpy since the prince showed his face,” a gruff voice said. “The commander’s convinced he’ll come for us next.”

  Another soldier chuckled. “The prince? If the stories are true, he’s just a glorified bandit playing hero. One good strike and his rebellion will crumble.”

  Alric stepped back from the door, his jaw tightening. The soldier’s words stung, but they also steeled his resolve.

  “Kaelion,” he thought, “any advice?”

  “Keep your head clear,” the Echo replied. “You’re not here to fight every soldier in Blackspire—just to open the gates. Don’t get drawn into a fight you can’t win.”

  Alric nodded, then motioned to the rebels behind him. “Get ready.”

  One of the rebels, a quiet woman named Renna, approached the door with a small blade and began to work on the lock. It took only moments before it clicked open.

  The door swung inward, revealing a dimly lit hallway. Two soldiers stood at the far end, their backs turned as they spoke in low tones.

  Alric moved like a shadow, his dagger flashing in the faint light. Before the soldiers could react, the obsidian blade struck, cutting them down with swift, silent efficiency.

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  Renna shuddered as the second man collapsed, but she said nothing, her grip tightening on her own dagger.

  “Come on,” Alric whispered, stepping over the bodies. “The main gate controls are just ahead.”

  The team climbed a spiraling staircase, the stone steps slick with condensation. The air grew warmer as they ascended, the distant hum of voices and clinking armor signaling that they were nearing the heart of the fortress.

  When they reached the top, Alric froze. The hallway ahead was lined with braziers, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows across the walls. At the far end stood a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands.

  “That’s the control room,” Alric said, his voice low.

  Kaelion’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent. “Wait.”

  Alric stopped in his tracks, his senses suddenly on high alert. The air felt wrong here—too still, too heavy.

  “Something’s not right,” Kaelion said. “This is a trap.”

  Before Alric could respond, the wooden door at the far end burst open. A tall figure strode through, clad in the blackened armor of Mordain’s Wolves. The man’s helmet bore the snarling visage of a wolf, and his blade gleamed with a faint, crimson light.

  The Handler.

  “So,” the man said, his voice cold and mocking. “The little prince has come to play.”

  The rebels tensed, their weapons raised. Alric stepped forward, his dagger held at the ready.

  “You’re outnumbered,” Alric said. “Surrender, and I’ll spare you.”

  The Handler laughed, the sound harsh and metallic. “Outnumbered? I don’t think so.”

  He raised his hand, and the shadows around him seemed to come alive. Figures emerged from the darkness—more soldiers, their armor glinting in the firelight.

  “Hold the line!” Alric shouted, bracing himself as the soldiers charged.

  The hallway erupted into chaos. Steel clashed against steel, and the air was filled with the shouts of rebels and the grunts of soldiers.

  Alric moved through the fray, his dagger flashing as he cut down one soldier after another. The power of the Echoes surged through him, sharpening his reflexes and lending him strength, but the whispers grew louder with every strike.

  “More… Take more… Give in…”

  “Shut up!” Alric snarled, his voice lost in the din.

  The Handler moved through the chaos like a wolf among sheep, his blade cutting down rebels with brutal precision. His eyes locked on Alric, and he raised his weapon, pointing it directly at him.

  “You’ll die here, boy,” the Handler said, his voice a low growl. “And your rebellion will die with you.”

  Alric met his charge head-on, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. The Handler was fast—faster than any opponent Alric had faced before. His strikes were calculated, relentless, each one driving Alric further back.

  Kaelion’s voice roared in Alric’s mind. “You can’t win this alone. Use me!”

  Alric hesitated, his breath ragged. He could feel the weight of the Echoes pressing against him, their power within reach. But Maltheron’s warning lingered in his thoughts.

  “Let us in…” the whispers urged. “Only then will you triumph…”

  The Handler’s blade grazed Alric’s shoulder, snapping him back to the moment. Gritting his teeth, he let the Echoes’ power flow through him, his eyes glowing faintly with golden light.

  The next time the Handler struck, Alric was ready. He sidestepped the blow with unnatural speed, his dagger cutting through the man’s armor and sinking deep into his side.

  The Handler gasped, staggering back as dark energy crackled along the wound. He fell to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp.

  Alric stood over him, his chest heaving. “Mordain’s reign ends here,” he said.

  The Handler’s lips curled into a bloodied smile. “You don’t understand… You can’t stop him. The blood… will consume you…”

  His words trailed off as he slumped to the ground, lifeless.

  With the Handler dead and the remaining soldiers routed, Alric and the rebels stormed the control room. The mechanisms for the gates were massive, their iron gears grinding as the rebels worked to release the locks.

  The gates of Blackspire groaned as they swung open, revealing the rebel forces waiting outside.

  Iridia led the charge, her fighters surging into the fortress with shouts of triumph. The battle was brief but decisive, the remaining defenders overwhelmed by the combined force of the rebels.

  By dawn, Blackspire was theirs.

  As the rebels celebrated their victory, Alric stood alone in the control room, his thoughts heavy. The power of the Echoes had saved him again, but the whispers had grown stronger, more insistent.

  Kaelion appeared beside him, his golden eyes filled with concern. “You did well, boy. But this isn’t over.”

  Alric nodded, his grip tightening on the dagger. “I know.”

  The rebellion had taken a crucial step forward, but the road ahead was darker than ever.

  And somewhere in the depths of his mind, the Echoes waited.